Chapter 26 Nadya
NADYA
The cold seeps into my bones.
It lives in the concrete beneath me, in the metal shelves that line the walls, in the air itself.
I sit with my back against the wall, my knees drawn to my chest, and I cannot stop shivering.
The stockroom stinks—a fermented yeasty scent that makes me wretch over its sweet hints.
Sacks of grain are stacked in the corner.
Empty crates sit against the far wall.
A single bulb hangs from the ceiling, seeping weak yellow light that does nothing to warm the space.
The door is steel, locked from the outside.
I heard the bolt slide shut hours ago.
Or maybe it was minutes.
I don't know anymore.
My stomach churns again.
I lean to the side and vomit onto the floor.
Nothing comes up but thin , acidic bile.
I don't even bother looking for a place to vomit other than the floor.
There's no point.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and close my eyes.
The nausea doesn’t fade.
It rolls through me in cruel agonizing waves.
I'm so tired.
Every part of me aches.
My wrists are raw from the zip ties they used when they dragged me from the warehouse.
My jaw throbs where one of them hit me.
My head pounds with a dull, steady pain that won’t go away.
I don’t know how long I’ve been here.
Time blurs when there are no windows, no clock, no way to tell if it is day or night.
My body clock says I should've slept long ago but every time I try to shut my eyes I see their faces and hear voices, though I'm not sure if they're real or imagined.
The men who took me are animals.
I learned that within the first hour.
They came for me in the middle of my job and brought me here.
Wherever here is.
The van drove for a long time, winding through streets I couldn't see.
They stopped several times too, spoke loudly in a dialect I didn't recognize, and every time I thought that was when they'd kill me.
But when they finally dragged me out, I smelled fresh bread baking somewhere nearby.
They questioned me, smacked me around, and now I'm here, locked in this tiny storage room alone, shivering and terrified.
The nausea comes again.
I lean over and dry heave, my body convulsing even though there is nothing left inside me.
My ribs ache.
My throat burns.
I curl into a ball on the floor to my other side, away from the vomit, and press my forehead to the concrete.
It's cool there, and I feel flushed from the exertion of dry heaves.
I need water.
I need food.
I need Xander.
But Xander's not here.
Xander doesn’t know where I am.
And even if he did, even if he came for me, these men would kill him.
They would kill him and make me watch, and then they would kill me too.
Or maybe they'd make him watch as they hurt me first.
The thought is terrifying.
I should have left Moscow weeks ago, the moment I realized what I was getting into, but I stayed.
I stayed because of the money.
I stayed because of Anya and Mikhail.
I stayed because of him.
Now I am going to die in a stockroom that reeks of yeast and vomit.
The door opens with a yawning screech and I lift my head, squinting against the sudden brightness.
Three men step inside.
The blond one.
The older one with the scar.
And a third man I’ve not seen before.
He is older than the others, maybe late fifties, with thick silver hair and brown eyes that show no mercy.
He wears an expensive wool coat, well-tailored.
His shoes are polished.
His hands are clean.
I don't know why I expect blood to be on them, crusted beneath his fingernails, but I do.
And I recognize him.
This is Arkady Sokolov.
I know it even before he speaks.
Xander had pictures of him on a table in his home once when I was there.
This is the man he's been hunting.
He looks at me the way a man looks at a stain on his carpet.
His mouth twists into a sneer.
"This is her?" he asks.
The blond one nods.
"Yes, boss."
Arkady walks closer.
He circles me slowly, his shoes clicking on the concrete.
I stay on the floor, too weak to stand.
His examination feels more like a man preparing to purchase livestock for his table than someone investigating a human being.
I feel exposed and cold, frightened of him.
"She doesn’t look valuable," he says.
"Morin sent her to clean his scenes," the older man replies.
"She's been with him for weeks."
The man's accent is so thick and broken I can barely understand him.
"And you think he cares about her?"
Sokolov lifts an eyebrow at his friend and I see the skepticism in his expression.
Of course he's doubtful.
Why would Xander want me?
I'm not a woman from his world.
I'm a college dropout, a weakling, a homebody.
I'm nothing to any of them, not worth the vomit-slathered concrete I lie on.
"He calls her every day. He sends her gifts. He defends her."
Arkady stops in front of me and crouches down, his face level with mine.
His breath smells of tobacco and coffee.
"Is that true?" he asks.
He takes my chin in his hand and turns it back and forth like he's studying my face.
"Does Xander Morin care about you?"
I say nothing.
My throat is too dry.
My voice is gone.
Arkady grabs my hair and yanks my head back.
Pain shoots through my scalp.
I gasp, tears springing to my eyes.
"I asked you a question," he says.
"I don’t know," I whisper.
"You don’t know?" He laughs a low sinister sound.
"You sleep in his bed. You wear his jewelry. You clean blood he sheds off the walls. And you don’t know if he cares about you?"
"He doesn’t tell me anything," I say.
Arkady's grip tightens.
He pulls harder, forcing me to look up at him.
His eyes are dark, bottomless voids where no mercy lives.
It's the same expression I saw on Leonid Markov's face when he looked at me at that party.
These men are inhabited by pure evil.
No goodness dwells in them at all.
"Where does he live?"
"I don’t know."
"Where does he keep his money?"
"I don’t know."
"Where does the Pakhan meet him?"
"I don’t know," I whimper and I manage to wince in pain.
Of course I know some of these answers, but never in a million years will I give them what they need to hunt him.
By now he will have called to check on me, or sent one of his men to see the job was never completed.
By now Xander will be looking.
Arkady releases my hair and stands.
He paces the room, his hands clasped behind his back.
The other men watch him, waiting for orders.
"She is useless," he says finally.
"Kill her."
The blond one pulls his gun.
"Wait," I scream.
The desperate word tears out of me with raw energy.
I feel I might be sick again as I plead, "Wait, please."
Arkady turns.
He looks at me with mild interest, as if I am a bug that's not yet been crushed.
"You’ve something to say?"
I nod.
My heart pounds so hard I think it will break through my ribs.
My hands shake.
I press them to my stomach, trying to steady myself.
I have nothing to say.
Nothing to offer them that they may want but I need to buy time for him to find me.
He has to come.
"I'm pregnant," I whisper, and my confession feels like betrayal.
I'm using my one vulnerability to buy myself time to figure something out.
I'm no fool.
I know they'll kill a pregnant woman just as quickly as anyone else, but the look on his face shifts and I feel hope surge.
Arkady stares at me.
The blond one lowers his gun.
The older man with the scar takes a step closer.
"Say that again," Arkady says.
"I'm pregnant," I repeat.
My voice cracks. "With his child."
Arkady's eyes narrow.
He crosses the room in two strides and crouches in front of me again.
This time, he doesn’t grab my hair.
He grabs my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze.
"Are you a Bratva whore?" he asks.
"Or do you mean something to him?"
I can't answer.
I can't think.
All I can do is tremble and sob.
"Answer me," he says.
"I don’t know," I whisper.
"I don’t know what I am to him."
I manage to sit up, swiping at my face, swatting at him.
"I fuck him, okay? I fuck him and I clean his crime scenes. That's what I know. He spends money on me to mark his territory, but he has never said he cares…"
"But you care…" Arkady studies me for a long moment.
"You care about him, don't you, you little bljad?"
"No," I sob, but he's right.
I do care, and I've told him.
I love him.
He has to come.
Arkady stands, not bothering to notice that his ring is caught on my hair, and it yanks a strand so hard I yelp.
But he ignores me, straightening his tie.
"Get a doctor," he says to the older man.
"I want proof."
The older man nods and leaves the room.
The blond one stays, his gun still in his hand.
Arkady walks to the door and pauses, looking back at me.
"If you are lying," he says, "I will slit your throat myself.
But not before I make you watch when I kill Xander Morin.
Do you understand?"
I nod but no sound will come from my mouth now.
I have no proof I'm pregnant, only a suspicion and a growing fear, and now I'm pitting my life against the hope that Xander gets here before they find that out.
Arkady leaves.
The door closes behind him.
The bolt slides home.
I sit on the floor, my arms wrapped around my stomach, and I pray.
I pray that I am not lying. I pray that the nausea and the exhaustion and the missed period mean what I think they mean.
I pray that there is a life growing inside me, because that life is the only thing keeping me alive right now.
The blond one leans against the wall, watching me.
His gun is holstered, but his hand rests on the grip.
He doesn’t speak or move. He just watches.
I close my eyes and count the seconds that pass that I hear nothing but the buzz of the light and the hum of machinery in the distance.
I count until the numbers blur together, until my mind goes numb, until I cannot feel the cold or the pain or the fear anymore.
I think of Xander.
I think of the way he looked at me the last time I saw him.
How hurt he was when I climbed out of his car after having sex with him.
I think of his voice when he calls me Ptichka, and how tender it is.
I'm the little bird, he's the predator.
But right now he's hunting me for a different reason.
Or at least I hope he is.
Does he know I am gone?
Has he tried to find me?
Or has he moved on, already forgetting the girl who cleaned his blood off the walls?
I don’t know.
I don’t know anything anymore.
The door opens again.
The older man returns, and with him is another man.
This one is younger, maybe thirty, with a medical bag in his hand.
He wears a white coat under his jacket.
His face is pale, his eyes nervous.
"She's here," the older man says, pointing at me.
The doctor approaches slowly.
He sets his bag on the floor and opens it, pulling out gloves and a small plastic box.
He looks at me, then at the men standing guard.
"I need her to urinate on this," he says, holding up a test strip.
The blond one laughs.
"You hear that? Piss on the stick, girl."
The doctor hands me the test and a small plastic cup.
I take it with shaking hands. My face burns with humiliation.
"There's a bathroom down the hall," the older man says.
"She can use it."
They drag me to my feet.
My legs barely hold me.
The blond one grabs my arm and pulls me toward the door.
The older man follows, his gun drawn.
The bathroom's small and filthy.
The sink is stained.
The toilet's cracked.
The mirror is shattered.
I lock the door behind me and lean against it, my chest heaving.
I never in my life thought this is how I would find out if my suspicions were true.
I can't do this.
I can't just pee on a stick and find out if they'll put a bullet in my head.
But I have no choice.
I pull down my pants and sit on the toilet.
My hands shake so badly, I almost drop the cup.
I hold it beneath me and wait.
It takes a long time.
My body doesn’t want to cooperate.
But finally, finally, I manage.
I fill the cup and set it on the sink.
I dip the test strip into the urine and wait.
The instructions say it takes three minutes.
I watch the strip, my heart pounding, my breath coming in short gasps.
One line appears.
Then another.
Two lines.
Positive.
I stare at the strip.
I stare until my vision blurs, until the lines swim together.
Then I press my hand to my mouth and sob.
I'm pregnant.
I'm carrying Xander's child.
The realization crashes over me, drowning me.
I don’t know if I'm relieved or terrified.
I don’t know if this will save me or kill me.
All I know is that I'm not alone anymore.
There is a fragile, innocent life inside me, and I'll do anything to protect it.
I open the door.
The men are waiting.
I hand the test strip to the doctor.
He looks at it, then nods.
"She is pregnant," he says.
The older man grunts and the blond one smirks.
They drag me back to the stockroom and throw me inside, and I stumble forward as the locks engage again and I'm alone.
I sit on the floor, my arms wrapped around my stomach, and I wait.
I wait for Xander.
I wait for death.
And most of all, I wait for the hope that the miracle of Christmas might happen for me this year.
If not, this will be the last night I live to put faith in anything.